


work benefits

by rosielibrary



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Kinda?, also kinda - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-07 00:34:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16843588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosielibrary/pseuds/rosielibrary
Summary: “Well! Seems my hypothesis is correct. The tree sap at the bottom of the mine is melting the dinosaurs free.”Any grand plans on how to deal with this correct hypothesis, you ask?“Um…”Ford grabs your hand.“Running will do just fine.”





	work benefits

This Doctor Pines fellow you started working for six months ago… he’s a weird one.

He’ll wake you up in the dead of night, chattering about seeing something outside his humble abode under the moon’s wide grin beaming through your guest room window. Grabbing your hand and pulling you downstairs (sometimes you’re still half-asleep and wake up once your feet hit the ground, slapping bare against the crunch of leaves) as he pursues the– whatever it was.

This has happened six times, yet… Stanford Pines keeps you coming back to his house instead of running in the opposite direction. There’s something in that bright smile that prevents you from leaving.

You’re his field assistant, going into the woods and helping him with research and documentation. Stanford hired you in the spring after your coinciding run-in with clans of gnomes brought you together— sitting tied back-to-back on the forest floor as the gnomes decided which clan would get to marry which of you. While neither you or Stanford had grand plans to marry gnomes, you find you’re thankful for the serendipity of the situation, since it got you a job and a cute boss all in one day.

Though he’ll never know about that latter part.

Stanford— Ford, he repeatedly corrects you. No need to be so formal— calls your name from his study and you follow his voice, closing your (his) book and dropping it onto the coffee table. He looks up when you knock on his open door, concentrated frown melting into a warm smile.

“Thank goodness. I wasn’t sure if you’d gone home yet.” Ford smooths his shirt down and circles around his desk, accompanied by his ever-present scarlet journal. “We have work to do.”

You ask what it is with a quirk of your brow— “work” could be anything from alphabetizing his bookshelf to fighting off a horde of angry Leprecorns. (Your encounter with the marriage-hungry gnomes sits somewhere in the middle.)

Ford points at a dog-eared page in his journal. His curlicue handwriting tells of a small duck-billed platypus— or rather, a plaidypus— that requires tender embracing for at least a hour. He follows your gaze and stammers in surprise.

“— Er— Well, isn’t he cute? Um, my apologies—“

You laugh as Ford flips through the pages to find the right entry. The plaidypus is vital information for research, you tease, and his cheeks tint red.

“Naturally. I-I had to find out why it was plaid. And why it needed so many hugs.”

Ford clears his throat and snaps his journal shut in one hand.

“You’re familiar with… Dinosaurs, yes?”

Of course. You remember having to spell them all in elementary school and getting mad because of all the unnecessary letters. Ford’s serious facade cracks to an amused smile.

“Yes, those ones. 65 million years ago, they dominated the world… and then they didn’t. While most were destroyed and left as piles of bones, some were… not.”

You challenge that— it’s impossible, for one. Even if a dinosaur had been preserved after they died out, there’s no way it would’ve stayed immaculate until now. Ford waggles his brow at you, his grin wide.

“Well, what if I told you that could be possible?”

He leans in for that very necessary dramatic effect; you ask how as you mirror his movement, waiting for the rest of his rebuttal… but he apparently loses his train of thought. Ford stares at you when you lean in, mouth half-open in the start of his next word. He searches your face, his expression almost dazzled.

You call his name. Twice.

Ford blinks and flushes scarlet.

“Oh— I’m terribly sorry, you have, um—“

He reaches forward, wipes his thumb across your cheekbone, and promptly wipes his hand on his jeans.

“Something on your face. Yes. Anyway…”

He launches into another speech about tree sap and dinosaurs, but it falls on deaf ears. You swipe your fingertip over where he touched you (and simultaneously feel how hot your face is) and examine what must’ve been on your face. Maybe dust from clearing through his textbooks earlier, or a smear of dirt from the morning’s trek to examine a particular type of flora.

Yet when you look down at your hand, there’s nothing there. He must’ve gotten it all when he wiped it off.

“… and the tree sap encasing them is melting or deteriorating in the summer heat— the dinosaurs could once more walk the earth.”

They’re what? The evident shock on your face makes Ford nod at you emphatically.

“Imagine! Some of the planet’s oldest creatures, here once more— in the perfect area for us to study them.” Ford paces around his study, scribbling away in his journal. “We have to get out there and find one, posthaste!”

Ford pulls his coat on (“I know it’s hot but where will I put my journal”) and strides out of his office, calling over his shoulder to hurry up or he’ll find the dinosaurs without you. You scurry out the house to meet him at his patio.

“Shall we?”

Lead the way, you declare with a wave of your arm, and Ford sets off towards the path through the trees. The pair of you walk in silence for most of the way— well, you do, as Ford babbles excitedly about dinosaurs. He’s a couple strides ahead of you for most of the walk, but when you reach a particularly steep drop off a wide tree trunk, Ford jumps down and turns to face you.

“Here.”

He chivalrously reaches out his hand to help you balance your way down the trunk. Your hand, much smaller than his, slides between his fingers, and you hop down from the top of the trunk with ease. It’s only when you look up to thank him for his assistance you realize Ford’s blushing pink to the tips of his ears— and still holding your hand. A beat passes until he acknowledges what you said.

“Oh, ah— of course. Can’t have my field assistant getting— getting hurt, after all.”

You ask if he’s doing alright— he’s very red.

“I’m fine! It’s hot out here. Whoo. Shall we press on? Yes.”

He answers his own question and goes to keep walking, tugs your arm, realizes he’s still holding your hand and drops it, quickening his pace. You stifle a giggle at his dorkiness but you’re glad he’s in front— you know your cheeks are pink too. Ford has such warm, rough-but-comforting hands… Oh, he’s several feet away now. You run to catch up and find he’s regained his composure, since you’ve reached your destination.

You stand in front of an ancient, rickety house, paint paled grey from the unkind sun and obviously decades old. An abandoned mining shaft sits beneath the floorboards, Ford tells you, pushing the door open and wincing when it creaks in protest.

There’s planks of wood pushed against the walls, spider-webs hanging from the ceiling rafters and dust blanketing every surface. Ford’s work-worn boots tread across the room to a large hole in the floor, looking down into a seemingly endless abyss.

“If my hypothesis is correct, the dinosaurs are down here.”

He points vaguely into the darkness. You swallow nervously, which punctuates your inquiry of how to get down there in the first place.

“Oh, rope, probably. But the wood in this house is too unstable to tie anything to, it’s too old… And surely the drop is much longer than my rope would provide.”

He tests this theory by plucking a quarter from his pocket and dropping it into the hole. You don’t hear it land.

Mostly because a pterodactyl climbs out of the hole with the quarter perfectly balanced between its two basketball-sized eyes, both glaring beadily at you and Ford. He sucks in a deep breath, looking to you, similarly terrified, from the corner of his eye.

“Well! Seems my hypothesis is correct. The tree sap at the bottom of the mine is melting the dinosaurs free.”

Any grand plans on how to deal with this _correct hypothesis_ , you ask?

“Um…”

Ford grabs your hand.

“Running will do just fine.”

The pterodactyl shrieks but you’re both already out of the abandoned house, running as fast as humanly possible. The loud crumbling of wood and sudden crash alerts you to the pterodactyl’s escape from the mine shaft, a plane-sized shadow trailing your path through the woods. Somehow you manage to work in sync from your fear: even after Ford lets go of your hand you’re still leaping over obstacles simultaneously, keeping the same pace. The pterodactyl swoops down to snatch one of you but barely misses, slicing a branch from its trunk with its talons. You veer to the left to avoid it but keep running, slowing pace once you reach a wide clearing, the river running across the middle and serenely trickling water downstream.

It’s in the silence that you realize Ford’s not with you.

You twist back and forth in search of him, but your boss is nowhere to be found. The path is bare, no telltale footsteps proceeding his arrival, and no dinosaur following suit, either.

You shout his name into the forest and it replies with your echo, autumn breeze shaking the pines around your head. You shout it again, louder, hands cupped around your mouth; you swear you hear him shout back, but you call out for him once more. The noise repeats, closer, louder. You yell for him to follow your voice, you’re here, where are you, Ford? Your voice cracks— your throat’s been screamed raw.

He screams back at you. It’s fairly high-pitched for Ford’s deep rumble, and instead of footsteps you hear the flap of wings— The pterodactyl lands in the clearing, clawed feet hitting the ground with a thud.

Well, you’ve never been able to say you’ve made direct eye contact with a dinosaur, but you could now.

It studies you, cocking its head to the side. You’re frozen in terror, hands shaking, blood thumping in your ears. Something catches its attention and it briefly turns around; you go to run but a branch (very rudely) cracks under your shoe. You gasp on instinct, clapping a hand over your mouth.

Time slows down after that.

The pterodactyl flips to face you, screeches into the trees and rises into the air, massive wingspan sending a stiff gust of wind through you. It backs up above a tall cedar and you watch it dive nose-first at you, bending back to grab your body and send you on your merry way to be pterodactyl dinner—

But something blocks its way in the nick of time and you hear a sharp electric _zap_ , the dinosaur’s screech, and a loud, deep scream in pain—

Ford’s standing in front of you, his coat and shirt are torn—

The pterodactyl, burned by Ford’s electroshock gloves, stumbles backwards in pain, two hand-shaped scorch marks printed on its ribs. It lifts into the air and flies away, intimidated.

“Hah! I knew those gloves would work. Oh no.”

Ford collapses, taking the fingertip of one glove between his teeth and yanking it off, his now bare hand clutching at his shoulder. Blood drips between his fingers and onto the ground and you run to kneel in front of him, hands outstretched but unsure of where to land.

“Are you alright?”

Is he kidding? He’s the one that got ripped to ribbons by a damn dinosaur. Ford laughs, but stops with a small yelp of pain.

Let me see, you ask, going to pry his fingers away from the wound, but his free hand stops you in your tracks.

“I’ll be alright, really. Just a scratch, hm?”

He smiles at you, but you see his clenched jaw and tears pricking at his eyes.

Let me see, you repeat, quieter, softer. Ford goes silent but abides, slowly peeling his hand off his shoulder.

Three parallel tears seep blood through the rips in his shirt and overcoat. The cuts are deep, but thankfully not stitches-worthy (you think), you say as you examine the wound. You’re no doctor, unlike him.

“Different kind of doctor, unfortunately.”

You need something to stop the blood flow before you get back to the house, though; you’re at least a twenty minute walk away in this part of the woods, if you remember rightly. Quick thinking makes you shrug off your lab coat and grab the pocketknife from Ford’s jacket (he stutters when you reach towards his chest and pluck it from his breast pocket). You saw at the fabric until the left sleeve tears off, then you get to work on the right side.

“But— No, wait—“

Ford attempts to stop you but you glare at him with a “Shut up, I’m helping” face. He closes his mouth, watching as you tie your sleeves together, wind them around his shoulder above his coat, and tie the makeshift bandage closed at his shoulder-blade. There. That’ll work until you get back.

You offer a hand to Ford to help him up, but he stays on the ground for a moment, staring up at you. It’s the same expression he wore in his study when you leaned in with him: half shocked, half amazed. You smile at him patiently, saying his name with a sing-song teasing tone. He blinks, startled, and takes your hand, standing up and brushing the dirt from his knees.

The walk home is quiet and slow, but you feel Ford watching you nearly every step of the way.

— — — — —

“This is ludicrous. There’s a damn _pterodactyl_ out there and you’re confining me to house arrest?”

Yes, yes you are. Ford sighs, perched on the end of his bed. Your sleeve-bandage is soaked crimson through, so you carefully untie it and toss it in the trash. Sleeveless lab-coats are definitely the new style, you joke, but you take yours off and drape it over Ford’s desk chair regardless.

“You don’t have to do this.”

Ford’s statement makes you turn to face him, about to argue, but he looks crestfallen, defeated. He doesn’t meet your gaze when you stand in front of him and crouch to his eye level. You hesitate for a second, afraid, but reach out and cup his cheek in your hand, gently tilting him to face you. The eye contact is intimidating, but you hold fast.

It’s okay, you tell him. You want to help. He saved your life today; it’s the least you can do to repay him.

He resigns to that, but you feel him lean into your palm before you pull away.

The first-aid box, open on Ford’s desk amongst loose papers and half-chewed pens, reveals its underuse in how everything within is pristine, mostly unopened. Ford apparently doesn’t patch himself up after scuffles with cryptids, evident from the scars you catch when he rolls up his sleeves.

You pull out disinfectant, a bandage roll, dressing, and a safety pin before turning back to Ford’s wound… mostly covered by coat and shirt. Hm.

You clear your throat before asking him (amid a few stutters) to take his shirt off. Please.

Ford’s face floods a deep red.

“… Um—“

So you can properly clean and dress the wound, you tell him in one breath. Of course. You’re sure people see their bosses shirtless all the time, right? Right.

Even though you both look mortified, Ford goes to oblige, but pauses, swallowing hard.

“Well, um… It’d be difficult for me to— to take— to take them off, you see. Shoulder injury and… Whatnot.”

Your stomach flips.

Bosses ask their assistants to _take off their clothes_ all the time, right? … Right?

You nod, not trusting your voice as you step forward, place the medical supplies at Ford’s side, and gingerly take hold of his coat. You do it from the front— Ford watches you carefully, bottom lip between his teeth as you peel his jacket off, carefully avoiding his injury. You pause to drape Ford’s coat over yours on his chair, then kneel in front of him to… take off his shirt.

He just _has_ to keep staring at you like that, doesn’t he?

You fumble with the buttons under his gaze, knowing your face is raspberry-red as you stare straight ahead at his chest. Going to pull the shirt off his wounded shoulder, your hand slips beneath the fabric for a split second; hair tickles your palm, his pulse going a mile a minute under your fingertips. You hear a sharp intake of breath but Ford doesn’t say anything, allowing you to pull his shirt off his torso and down his arms, pooling behind him on the bed in a puddle of yellow fabric.

You can’t help it— you shamelessly ogle. He’s well-built, muscle taut beneath scarred skin. You trace down a scar running across his bicep and he says “Multi-Bear” in a whisper. His chest heaves with heavy breaths but he straightens up when you apply the disinfectant to his wound, nothing more than a quiet hiss of pain before he settles.

You thank him in a murmur for saving your life earlier, the hand not dabbing at his shoulder dropping to his chest— to steady yourself, of course.

“Oh, it’s quite alright. I had to make sure you were okay, after all. Doesn’t matter if I get hurt in the field.”

His honesty startles you into turning to look at him, and your face flushes pink at his soft smile.

But you got hurt, you protest, dropping the disinfectant wipe into the trash can and adjusting the dressing over the three scratches. He didn’t have to put himself between you and the pterodactyl. You carefully lift Ford’s arm up so you can wrap the bandages around, focusing on that rather than his gaze bearing into the side of your face.

Ford gets brave as you wind the bandages and gently takes your chin in his hand, turning your head to face him. A new record broken— you feel his breath against your mouth from how close you are. Ford seems to recognize this, but he’s unabashedly staring down at your lips.

“You… and your safety… are of paramount importance to me.”

Without breaking away, you take the safety pin and clip the bandaging together. You breathe a quiet “finished”, but make no movement to leave. Neither does he.

“Now that that’s done–“

Ford pulls you forward and kisses you, hard. His hand at your chin moves to the back of your neck to bring you closer and you feel his opposite hand curling around your arm, moving to your shoulder, your cheek.

He wants to touch you all over, apparently.

You quite happily allow him to, reaching eager fingers to card through his hair. Ford hums in approval and guides your hips forward, his backward on the bed, until you’re sitting on his lap. His hands slide up the concave of your waist and he smirks against your mouth when you shiver; you “adjust” your hips on his lap, pulling away and giggling when he moans.

Ford’s blushing face promptly ducks under your chin and he directs his attention to the slope of your neck, leaving kisses from your jaw to your collarbone; some delicate, some… less so. It’s his turn to laugh in boast when your grip on his hair tightens.

He winds both arms around your middle and pulls you down onto the bed with him, wandering hands dancing up and down your body, never staying anywhere for too long— he wanted to cover every inch of you with his touch, needed to, and he was damn well going to.

Until he remembers, oh yeah, he has a bandaged shoulder that kinda maybe hurts a lot from landing on something very uncomfortable.

He groans and pats your back more urgently so you sit up on top of him, asking if you leant on his shoulder funny, did you hurt him or go too far oh no is he alright—

“I’m fine, darling, I’m fine. Really.”

The pet name catches both of you off-guard and you timidly smile through pink cheeks. Ford reaches behind his bandaged shoulder to find one of his many journals— number 1, this time, in contrast to the number 2 he carries when you explore the woods at his side.

“This brings a brand new meaning to work getting in the way of relationships.”

You snort with laughter and Ford’s grin softens, his wide hands rubbing up and down your waist.

“So…”

So? You repeat him teasingly, still sat triumphant atop him. Ford’s hands stop at your hips and he goes quiet, serious.

“I planned on telling you in a much less— well, forward manner… I got carried away in the moment, I suppose.”

Ford looks away, suddenly bashful.

“Ever since we started working together, I—I’ve had… feelings… for you. Not just as a coworker or a friend, but… more than that.”

You take his hands from your hips and thread your fingers between his.

“You’ve been a valuable asset to my research, yes, but… to my life, too. I never thought I was cut out for the likes of r-relationships, yet— you’re different.”

You bend down and kiss him, smiling against his lips. You quietly tell him that you’ve been, ahem, pining after him since you were tied back-to-back in the gnome cave.

“I’ll never forgive you for that pun.”


End file.
